Frostborn: The Broken Mage (10 page)

Morigna looked through the giant mushrooms to where Ridmark sat with the others.

“If I do,” she heard herself say, “then I would deserve it.”

Chapter 5: Sacrifices

They rested in the cavern near the shores of the pond, and the next morning they headed deeper into Khald Azalar.

Ridmark glanced over his shoulder. They had rested for about nine hours, but in that time he had seen no sign of any enemies. Mara had traveled back up the tunnel to the sealed door, and reported that while the glyphs had decayed considerably, the Mhorites still had not forced their way inside. Perhaps even the combined magic of Mournacht and his shamans had been unable to force the dwarven glyphs to open.

Or Mournacht and his warriors had chosen another door. Perhaps Mournacht knew exactly where Dragonfall was, and was marching there even now as Ridmark and the others wandered lost through the farm caverns. If Shadowbearer was controlling Mournacht and augmenting his magic, it was entirely possible that the corrupted archmage knew where to find Dragonfall and the staff…

No. If Shadowbearer knew where to find Calliande’s staff, he would have claimed it centuries ago. Shadowbearer might have realized that the Keeper’s staff was hidden in Khald Azalar, but he might not yet have found its exact location. 

It was also possible that the Traveler and the Anathgrimm had wiped out the Mhorites, or that the two armies had scattered each other. In this stone maze, there was no way to find out without walking right into a battle, and Ridmark wanted to avoid that. The best course of action was to find Calliande’s staff and escape from Khald Azalar before either the Traveler or Mournacht noticed what had happened. 

Unfortunately, that was far easier said than done.

The cave where they had rested was the first part of a large series of natural caverns. The dwarves of Khald Azalar had put those caverns to use, linking them, smoothing them, and digging narrow channels to the surface to capture snowmelt and funnel it to the retaining ponds. Ridmark passed through a dozen caverns similar to the first, all of them holding dozens of ironstalk mushrooms and hundreds of ghost mushrooms, their ponds containing strange eyeless fish that darted back and forth through the water without a ripple. Murrags wandered through the caverns, grazing upon the mushrooms and eyeing Ridmark with truculent indifference. 

Save for the murrags and the fish, there was no trace of any other living creatures. No deep orcs, no Mhorites, no Anathgrimm, nor any of the other kindreds and creatures that dwelled in the Deeps. Ridmark thought that odd. The farming caverns had enough ironstalk mushrooms, fish, and murrags to support thousands if managed properly, and anyone living in Khald Azalar would seize the valuable food supplies. The deep orcs, certainly, would have done so.

So why had they come across no one?

“Perhaps we should double back and return to the Citadel of the West,” said Kharlacht as they entered yet another cavern forested with ironstalk mushrooms. “The glyphs upon the door would have released by now.”

“We would walk right into the Mhorites,” said Jager. “I don’t know about you, but I would rather not see them again.”

“It is possible the Mhorites have passed on,” said Arandar.

“Or we’ll meet them as they make their way down here,” said Caius. 

Ridmark said nothing. He thought he heard a faint splashing noise in the distance, and felt a whisper of cool breeze against his face. Were they coming near the surface? If they came to the surface, they would not be trapped in Khald Azalar. On the other hand, they would have to circle back down the slope of the mountain and reenter the Gate of the West, and they would be behind the Anathgrimm and the Mhorites. 

“I only mention the possibility,” said Kharlacht, “because I fear that we may have entered a dead end. Perhaps these caverns are only accessible through the Gate of the West.” 

“No,” said Ridmark, “they’re not.” 

Caius frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “I can hear a waterfall.” 

He led the way through the cavern, past a pond filled with rippling silver fish. At the far end of the cavern rose an arch of carved stone, dwarven glyphs inscribed into the lintel. Beyond the arch came the faint gleam of glowstones. 

“What does it say, Brother Caius?” said Calliande. 

“That we are in the Farmers’ Quarter of Khald Azalar,” said Caius. He blinked. “And that beyond are streets that lead to the Forge Quarter, the Mines Quarter, and the Temple Quarter.” 

“It seems we are on the right path,” said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. “Perhaps Dragonfall is near the Temple Quarter.” 

“Maybe,” said Calliande. “I think…if Dragonfall was a secret known only to the Kings of Khald Azalar, it would have to be in the most secure part of the city. Somewhere only the Kings or maybe the high stonescribes could have accessed.”

“The Citadel of Kings,” said Caius. “The traditional name for the seat of a dwarven king. Or the King’s treasury. Those would be in the heart of the city, in the deepest levels.” 

“The staff is further beneath us,” said Calliande. “Of that I am certain.” 

“Maybe we can find a map beyond this cavern,” said Ridmark, and he led the way through the arch, from the dim radiance of the ghost mushrooms to the brighter light of the dwarven glowstones. 

The cavern was larger than the Dormari Market, and reminded Ridmark of the ruins of Thainkul Agon and Thainkul Dural. It was a vast natural cavern, but the dwarves had carved tiers across the floor and walls, providing stable platforms for houses. A stream ran through the center of the cavern, and a waterfall tumbled from the highest tier. On either side of the waterfall Ridmark saw galleries, undoubtedly streets that led to the other Quarters of Khald Azalar. 

That was good news, but for the moment the streets did not hold his attention.

The corpses lying amongst the blocky dwarven houses did. 

Dozens of dead deep orcs lay scattered among the tiers, slain by sword and mace and axe. The faint odor of rotting flesh colored the air, and in a few days the stench would be terrible. To judge from the state of the corpses, Ridmark did not think they had been dead for very long. Two days, maybe. 

Which meant that the deep orcs had been killed while Ridmark and the others had passed the Gate of the West. 

“This happened recently,” said Morigna, her black eyes sweeping over the corpses. “Maybe even yesterday.” 

“Did they kill each other?” said Calliande, peering around the cavern. 

“It would seem that way,” said Kharlacht, his greatsword in hand. “Those are wounds from sword and axe, not claws.”

“Plus no one ate them,” said Jager. 

Ridmark looked at the nearest deep orc. The lack of eyes made it difficult to judge the dead orcish man’s expression, but his tusked mouth was twisted with fury. A deep axe wound had ended his life, splitting his ribs and turning his heart to pulp. 

“Ridmark,” said Morigna, pointing with her staff. “Look.”

A dark shape lay sprawled in the doorway of a nearby house, so dark that it somehow seemed to drink the light from the glowstones.

Ridmark muttered a quiet curse and stepped over the dead deep orcs, stopping before the house.

A gray-skinned figure lay sprawled in the doorway. It looked like a dead dwarf, but no dwarf had bottomless black eyes like pits into a freezing void. The dead figure wore armor fashioned of a peculiar black metal that seemed oily, yet it did not reflect any light. The armor would be superb for stealth, yet the dead warrior would have hardly needed it. He would have had the power to draw the shadows around him, to make himself invisible.

Morigna stepped to Ridmark’s side, her black eyes narrowing in sudden anger. “A dvargir.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. The dvargir were the sundered cousins of the dwarves. Caius might have turned from the gods of stone and silence to pray to the Dominus Christus, but the dvargir had forsaken the gods of stone and silence to worship the great darkness of Incariel. 

“There are four other dvargir corpses on the other bank of the stream,” called Kharlacht.

“Two more in that house,” said Arandar, Heartwarden in his hand. A little stab of pain went through Ridmark’s head from his broken link with the soulblade. 

“Then the deep orcs were slaves of the dvargir,” said Calliande, “and they were fighting someone else. The Mhorites, maybe? Perhaps Mournacht sent scouts into Khald Azalar before we arrived.”

“The tracks are wrong for that,” said Morigna, her voice harsh, but for once the harshness was not aimed at Calliande. The dvargir had killed her parents at the Old Man’s command. “I think the deep orcs were fighting the dvargir.”

“Antenora, Mara,” said Ridmark. “The dvargir can use the shadows to make themselves invisible. That shouldn’t foil the Sight, though…”

“There is nothing, Gray Knight,” said Antenora. “I see nothing. No one is using dark power to conceal themselves in this cavern.” 

“I agree,” said Mara. “No dvargir.”

Ridmark nodded, but his alarm did not ebb. There might not have been any dvargir in the cavern, but that did not mean it was empty.

“Morigna,” he said. 

She gestured, purple fire dancing around her fingers as she cast the spell to sense the presence of weight against the ground, and her eyes widened. She looked around, her face tightening, and Ridmark gripped his staff.

“Deep orcs,” murmured Morigna. “At least twenty of them. They’re spread out around us. Some on this side of the stream, some on the other.” 

Ridmark nodded and headed back to the others, beckoning them to draw closer around him. 

“Deep orcs,” he said. “We have walked into an ambush.” 

Gavin frowned as he looked around. “Won’t…they be able to hear us talking? They have sensitive ears.”

“Aye,” said Arandar, “but I doubt they understand Latin, and we’ve been speaking Latin the entire time.” 

“We could strike first,” said Kharlacht. 

“They are too widely dispersed,” said Morigna. “They have us in a circle. We can break out in any direction, but the others will attack us.”

“Perhaps they’re not trying to ambush at all,” said Calliande. “Maybe they’re just trying to hide until we go past. The dvargir may have frightened them into hiding.”

“The battle was one or two days ago,” said Morigna. “Why are they still lingering here?”

“To loot the corpses, perhaps?” said Jager. “The dvargir had better weapons and armor than anything the deep orcs have.”

“Then why haven’t they looted the bodies already?” said Ridmark.

“We could just walk out of here,” said Calliande. 

“And into the trap?” said Morigna. “Because I am certain this is a trap.”

“As am I,” said Arandar. 

“Then we spring the trap,” said Ridmark, considering the possibilities. Clearly there had been tribes of deep orcs living in Khald Azalar for decades, perhaps ever since the Frostborn had defeated the dwarves. If the deep orcs had lived for years in Khald Azalar, then perhaps they knew some of its secrets. Maybe they even knew where to find Dragonfall. “Or we ask nicely if they will let us pass.”

“What?” said Morigna. 

“Deep orcs of Khald Azalar!” called Ridmark in the orcish tongue, his voice echoing off the ceiling. “Hear me! I wish to speak to you in parley.” 

No one answered him.

“Have you lost your mind?” said Morigna in Latin.

“Maybe,” said Ridmark, switching back to orcish. “Come forth and parley! Else we shall pass through, and if you try to bar our way, we will fight you!”

For a moment nothing happened, and then a gaunt, spindly figure appeared from behind one of the dwarven houses, a deep orc dressed in armor fashioned of leather and bones, a long spear in his right hand. The veins in the strange heat-sensing organ pulsed as the deep orc’s eyeless gaze turned towards Ridmark, and his nostrils flared. 

“Sunlanders,” said the deep orc in a hissing, gargling voice. “Humans from the sunlight lands. You should not have come here.”

Ridmark had never heard a deep orc speak before. 

“Probably not,” said Ridmark, “but it was necessary.” 

“You slew our kin,” said the deep orc, and more deep orcs appeared from behind the houses in utter silence, weapons in hand. “You slew our kin near the Gate of the West.”

“Your kin,” said Ridmark, watching as the deep orcs moved in eerie silence, “tried to kill us. We merely defended ourselves.”

The deep orc let out a gargling laugh. “Yes, there is that. Who are you, human?” 

“You can call me the Gray Knight,” said Ridmark. 

“I am the First of the tribe of the Silent Ones,” said the deep orc. “You are intruding in our realm.”

“Your realm?” said Ridmark. “This is Khald Azalar, the city of the dwarves.”

“The dwarves died long ago, slain by the great cold ones,” said the First. “Have the dead need of a city? The cold ones slew the dwarves, and the shining Swordbearers of the sunlit lands slew the cold ones, so the city of the dwarves now belongs to us.” His eyeless face twisted in a snarl. “Or it did.”

“The dvargir, then,” said Ridmark, gesturing at the black-armored corpses. “They have come to take Khald Azalar from you?” 

“The shadowed ones?” said the First. “They often come here from Khaldurmar, seeking slaves to sell in the markets of their city. Sometimes they kidnap Silent Ones. Sometimes we slay them.” He waved his spear over the carnage. “The shadowed ones often come. But others have come since our god told us the great power awakened.” 

“Your god?” said Ridmark.

“The Devourer,” said the First. “The Devourer rules in Khald Azalar. We provide the Devourer with sustenance, and it protects us.” 

“It?” said Ridmark, surprised. He had always assumed that the deep orcs worshipped the old blood gods of the orcs, Mhor and Ulak and Qaza and the others. Yet the blood gods were either male or female like their mortal worshippers. “What manner of god is the Devourer?”

“It is the Devourer, and we are its servants,” said the First.

“That is why your kin tried to capture us at the Gate of the West, is it not?” said Ridmark. “Not to take us as slaves. To offer us as sacrifices to your Devourer.”